Darkness Shall Follow
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: It doesn't matter who it is. It just matters that it's not both of them. That he's going to save one and probably condemn the other.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Darkness Shall Follow

Rating: PG-13 for creepiness and violence, gen

Characters: John, Dean, Sam

A/N: This is so not my norm, and I really can't say why John's voice came into my head of all people. In this fic, Sam's 16 and Dean's 20, and John is John. This is a dark-ish fic, but I don't think it's too out there, but I could be wrong. Much thanks to geminigrl11 for the beta. And I have to thank sendintheclowns for being my go-to girl when it comes to random plot details that need to be researched. And altpointofview was extremely helpful confirming all the medical stuff and for general cheerleading. There are four chapters to this fic and an epilogue.

Disclaimer: I claim none of this, except the places where my tense slips--that's all me :)

Summary: It doesn't matter who it is. It just matters that it's not both of them. That he's going to save one and probably condemn the other. This destroys him either way

* * *

_In the desert  
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,  
Who, squatting upon the ground,  
Held his heart in his hands,  
And ate of it._

_I said, "Is it good, friend?"  
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;  
"But I like it  
Because it is bitter,  
And because it is my heart."_

-"The Heart" by Stephen Crane

-o-

It's late fall and they're in Minnesota. John's caught wind of some disappearances he wants to check out and there's a few other hunts in the area that allow them to settle for a bit in Duluth. They've been there nearly three months, nearly long enough for Sam to finish up his term at school, and John just wants to finish this last hunt up, and move on.

The longer Sam stays someplace, the more he wants to stay, and the kid has been dropping hints for weeks about how he wants to finish out his English Literature class.

They're headed for a fight, John can sense it, so he wants to pull out and leave before it gets harder than it is.

For now, though, they're all focused on the hunt. The boys have been studying and training, and he's been covering all his bases.

He gets home that afternoon, a little weary, and a little anxious. They're getting close, and something just feels bigger about this one in a way he can't explain.

He's so focused on that, that he's thrown off when he finds his son sitting on the floor, reading.

"Aren't you supposed to be training?"

Sam jumps, clearly caught off-guard. He hurriedly closes his book and shoving it behind his backpack. "Sorry, I, uh--"

"Thought you could get away without training today?" John guesses, his voice a little light in the accusation. Sam's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It's such a flagrant offense, almost innocent in its obviousness, that John isn't sure he needs to yell.

Sam blushes. "I have a lot of homework tonight," he says.

John just raises his eyebrows. "Training before homework. You know the rules."

Then Sam rolls his eyes, and John knows this is trouble. Sam sighs a little, in exaggerated exasperation. "It's not like one day will kill me or anything," Sam says, his voice far too easy.

"Training is important," John replies, his voice taking on an edge. "You know that."

At this, Sam snorts, and it sends John's blood pressure rising. He wonders why his son just can't take orders, just can't obey without comment for once in his life. He'd never had nearly this problem with Dean, and John's so used to people doing what he says that patience isn't a virtue he practices anymore, and usually Sam gets the short end of that stick.

"Yeah, I'm sure that a spirit will really care how many sit-ups I can do as we're wasting it," Sam quips.

And that about does it. Sam needs a talking to, to be reminded of who he is. "I suggest you rethink what you're saying, son." It's not a request and they both know it.

The humor fades from Sam's eyes and his jaw sets rigidly for a moment. "I just stopped for a minute," he says, trying to justify his wayward behavior.

John recognizes it as a childish plea for mercy. An excuse. Sam's out of excuses in this house. It's always something, always just for a minute, always just a little. On some level, John can see that Sam's desires are simple and normal, but their lives aren't simple and normal, and John knows if he gives too much, he'll lose his son forever one way or another. He's worked to hard for that, worked too hard to have Sam act like a common teenager.

His eyes narrow and he straightens his back. "Samuel, you know the rules."

A thousand imperceptible thoughts flash through Sam's eyes--annoyance, fear, questioning, frustration--before they go blank again. He tries to smile. "Dad..."

"You think this is a joke, Sam?" John asks, point blank, so Sam has no place to hide.

Sam looks down and won't look up at him. Though his youngest is nearly as tall as him, the thin shoulders slouch, and he seems to shrink in his father's presence. "No, sir."

"Then you can leave the attitude outside, okay?"

Sam grits his teeth and John can see the boy wants to protest.

"You hear me?"

Patience is not a strength of any teenager, and clearly Sam's no different. "We shouldn't have to do this," he says finally, a twinge of petulance coloring his voice.

"What, protect yourselves?"

Sam sighs in exasperation. "I wouldn't need to protect myself if you didn't drag me on hunts all the time."

And there's the accusation that John won't stomach, the one that Sam's been dancing around for weeks now. His anger turns wrathful just like that. "You think ignorance will help you? That it will save you? That if you live in a nice house on a nice street with nice things that somehow you'll be safer? It doesn't work that way. People die every day—all because they were too ignorant of what was out there to help themselves. Evil doesn't care who you are. It always finds you, always. And the only way to protect yourself is to fight it. To be ready for it. To get it before it gets you."

The words subdue Sam, beat him down, and the boy seems to fold into himself completely. He won't look up, and his eyes darken and his shoulders sag. John swallows hard, wondering if he's gone too far.

But Sam nods, his son acquiesces. The defiance seems to be buried in the hurt and John almost opens his mouth to say something.

Sam beats him to it. "Four more sets?"

This is such a rare acceptance that John's words are quieted and he nods gruffly back. "Make it three then take a shower."

Sam doesn't even look up as he bends down to try his hand at push-ups again.

John lingers for a moment, watching his son, watching the way Sam moves, strong and confident and able. He has a swell of pride and he leaves the room before he can let that emotion overtake him. He knows that emotion is weakness, that sentimentality is dangerous, that giving in ruins the chain of command. There simply isn't room for risks.

-o-

John is reading when he hears the shower run. He doesn't have to check to know Sam did what he was supposed to do. Sam is defiant, but he knows his son, knows when he's given in and when he's still fighting. Sam's resigned himself for today, and John rests easy in that fact.

The door opens and John looks up. Dean is sauntering into the kitchen.

John looks back down at his notes. "You pick up the supplies?"

It's an unnecessary question, he can see the bag in Dean's hands, and more importantly, he knows this son, too.

Dean grins and places the bag on the table. "Everything, just like you asked," he says, and John can hear the pride in his voice.

"Banishing candles?"

Dean pulls two candles from the bag. "Purest wax I could find."

John nods in approval. "The herbs?"

"All there," he says, tossing the small packets on the table. "Had to hit the organic food store and everything."

"Good," John murmurs, making another annotation in his margin.

Dean sighs a little and sits down in the chair. "You really think he'll give us trouble?" Dean asks, fondling the herbs and the candles laid out on the table.

John pauses for a moment and thinks Dean is talking about Sam. But his son is focused on the tools of the hunt, the task at hand. "There's just something...off in this case," John tries to explain. "No one's actually _seen_ this one, and usually there are rumors at least."

"Well, everyone's convinced it's some serial killer," Dean says with a snort, leaning back in his chair.

John chuckles. This feels good. Him and Dean, talking the job. Dean's a natural at this, and John's a little reluctant to admit that his son is almost ready to go solo. But for now, it's still a story of the family that hunts together, stays together. And together is the only place he wants them to be.

"A serial killer would be easy to deal with," John says. "No supernatural powers, no salt and burn, just simple flesh on flesh, mind to mind."

Dean just shrugs. "Nothing we can't handle."

He says it with such ease, such confidence, such assurance, that it makes John feel like maybe he's done something right in his life after all.

-o-

At nine, the sky is dark and the air is bitter cold. The locals have all huddled up for the night, and smoke rises from the chimneys throughout town. No one seems out and about, and as John rubs his hands in the night, he's actually pretty glad. The last thing they need are people wandering by. It's never easy to explain one's presence in a graveyard at night with a shovel in hand.

The boys are mostly quiet, both focused on their tasks. He wants them covering the perimeter. It's not clear where the attacks take place and John wants to be sure it doesn't pop up elsewhere and nab someone else.

The boys move in tandem with one another, reading the other's moves without talking at all. They exchange glances, almost dance around each other as they prepare, and it's so seamless that John wonders when they became so good at it.

All the training, all the years and years of training and persistence, seems to have paid off, he thinks, and he can't help but smile.

"Keep to the perimeter and check out any suspicious movement," John reminds them.

Sam purses his lips and Dean's nod is serious.

"Be safe, boys," John says as he shoulders his pack and grabs his shovel.

At this, they both nod. It's Sam who says softly, "You too, Dad."

-o-

The dig is hard. The ground is cold and the dirt is stiff as he tries to dig through it. The entire night is uncomfortable as hell and he'd rather be at home nursing a beer with his journal, but he's not. And this has to be done.

His breath comes in puffs and his lungs burn a little with exertion in the cold. He's going to be stiff tomorrow, no matter how good of shape he's in, and he can feel it working through his muscles already.

But it's been thankfully quiet, and John is grateful for that small favor.

He hopes the boys are moving around, that they're keeping themselves warm. Both of their jackets are worn, and Sam's is far too small for him. Next week, when the hunt is over, he'll have to buy them new ones.

He's nearly done when he sees the light.

It's coming from the crypt.

For a second, he thinks it could be the boys, that they could have gone in there to get warm, but it doesn't make sense. They know better than to draw that much attention to themselves. And John knows his boys, and they wouldn't be distracted enough by cold to abandon their posts. Not for anything.

Dean's distracted by a good looking girl and Sam's a sucker for a good book, but both boys know that on a hunt, there are no room for mistakes. Their focus is singular. Everything else gets put aside.

So it's not the boys. And John can't think of anything else.

He could wait for the boys to check it out, but he's much closer, and it's making him nervous. Sighing, he hoists himself from the grave, shovel in one hand, flashlight in the other, and walks toward the crypt.

He scans the perimeter and looks for a sign from the boys.

All is still and quiet.

That seems off to him, seems too quiet. He wishes he could see something from the boys, but he's the one who taught them how to be stealthy. He shouldn't be surprised that they're good at it.

He approaches the crypt cautiously and uncertainly. He doesn't know where this is leading yet, and he needs to be open to all possibilities.

When he gets there, he sees the door is cracked, and there's someone inside.

He could just leave, go hide, but something compels him to go forward. Whoever this is, he's surely already seen John, already seen the grave he's been digging, so there's something to be said for damage control.

The door opens with a squeak, and John steps in. The man looks up at him from the opposite side. He's reclining against the wall, arms crossed against his chest, and he's watching.

John is tentative and slow. He doesn't know this man, hasn't seen him, but he seems familiar. His policy is always to play it cool with civilians because he doesn't want them involved, but he doesn't really know why this one is in a crypt at night.

"I've been watching you, John," the man says, so casually, almost friendly.

John's heart skips a beat right there. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. He's walked into something that he's not prepared for, he's been totally and completely blindsided.

The man seems to be enjoying his confusion. "I've been watching you trying to watch me," he says. "And you've been close. So close. But just not quite." The regret in his voice sounds rehearsed and mocking.

"Who are you?" John asks, his fingers tensing on the gun buried under his coat. He circles slowly, his back still to the wall, keeping his distance and sizing up his opponent.

The man is normal looking. Average height, a somewhat lesser build. His hair is brown and his face is forgettable. But his eyes twinkle with darkness and his smile reveals pure white teeth. "My name's Garrett," he says. "But you're already familiar with my work."

It clicks.

Seven disappearances, all in this graveyard. The victims' jackets and shoes were always found in this crypt, but no other trace was ever discovered. One every year. Same date. Same time. Same everything. The victims aren't connected, aren't similar. It has all the markings of a telltale spirit and a cemetery is a perfect place for one to grow.

The cops were thinking serial killer, but John had been pretty sure otherwise.

The cops were right.

The killer is standing right before him, living and breathing and not nearly as psychotic as John would think a serial killer would be.

The man, Garrett, recognizes the realization in John's eyes. He chuckles. "You thought I was a ghost," he said. "You were prepared for a haunting. You even have the boys out there right now keeping watch to make sure you don't get picked up for desecration."

And he'll be damned if it's not like a sucker punch. It takes all he has to keep from flinching.

Garrett seems to see it anyway. "You fascinate me, John," he says, hands pushed deep in his coat pockets. "You're so sure of yourself, so careful, so protective. I like to watch people, John, and I've never watched anyone like you."

John is still moving, even slower now, waiting for his opening, waiting for a sign to strike.

"You're so blind when it comes to them," Garrett says. "You love them, you want to keep them safe, but you left them completely exposed out there."

And John gets it suddenly, gets what Garrett knows. He knows where the boys are. He's seen the boys.

"Anything could happen to them."

"Leave my boys out of this," John growls, a flash of rage mixing with a bolt of fear as he finds his voice.

He smiles, long and easy. "But, John, I'm not the one who brought them into this," he says.

"They're just boys," John says, and he can keep the panic from hitching in his voice.

"That should be at home, studying and thinking about girls," Garrett agrees. "But instead you arm them with silver bullets and salt and show them all the darkness of the world. Then you march them through the pits of hell and have the audacity to be surprised when demons salivate over them." He shook his head slowly, a smile of sympathy and condescension on his face. "You don't understand, John. You did this to your boys. This is your fault. You can't protect lambs by hiding them in a lion's den."

John is frozen now, too angry to even speak, too scared to even draw his gun.

"Your boys, John? They're good kids. Almost as good of hunters. But not good enough. Not prepared enough. They should be at home watching TV on a cold night like this. But instead you had them playing back up, hiding in some ditch. You'll be lucky if they both don't catch hypothermia from sitting out there." He stops and smiles. "Although hypothermia isn't much compared to a head injury and oxygen deprivation now, is it, John?"

John's blood is boiling and freezing all at once and he lunges forward at him in a burst of rage, pinning him to the wall. "What have you done to my sons?"

Garrett just laughs, not struggling against John's grip. "I assure you, I did them very little harm."

John's grip tightens dangerously. "Where are they?" he demands, his eyes delving into the man's deceptively soft blue eyes.

"But I thought you trusted them, John," he says. "I thought they were safe."

He's mocking him and it makes John's anger surge. "Tell me." He emphasizes his words with a harsh shake.

It makes Garrett laugh, throw his head back and laugh. When he's done, he quirks his lips into a smile. "Give me your weapons," he says.

"What?"

"Give me your weapons," he repeats. He nods to John's gun tucked in his pants. "All of them."

"Why would I do that?" John's voice is a mixture of disbelief and anger.

"Because if you don't, then I won't tell you how to save your sons."

John just stares at him.

"It's their time you're wasting, John," he says. "I have all night. They don't."

Numbly, John lets go, releases him and steps back.

"That's it," he coaxes. "The gun first."

He can't believe he's doing this. He could beat this man, he could kill him with his bare hands, but something inside of him can't take that chance. He won't take that chance.

He knows demons lie, and people can too, but this one's telling the truth.

John pulls the gun out and hands it over.

A flash of victory lights on Garrett's face. "Now the rest, please, John."

So John disarms, methodically and quickly, and Garrett accepts each piece like a conquest.

Garrett fondles each piece for a moment, before pocketing them. Then he smiles broadly. "You're to wait five minutes," he says. "Then you may leave the crypt and look for the boys. There will be a map at the cemetery gate. If you follow me, you'll never get it. If you waste your time coming after me...well, then, you really won't need the map after all. Do you understand, John?" His smirk is condescending, his tone is too good natured.

John's heart is racing, and he feels a little faint. His mind is screaming that he needs to do something, anything, but he can't make himself move.

Garrett moves to the door, cocking his head. "A little tongue-tied, are we? I know you're not a man of many words, but really, I did expect more from you."

Garrett's to the door and John's still standing there. He's still a little shocked he was wrong, still a little shocked that a man that looks like nobody could have gotten one up on him, still a little shocked that this man is dangling his boys in front of him and he can't do anything but play by his rules.

He's John Winchester. This just doesn't happen.

But it is happening.

"And I'd hurry, John," he adds from the doorway. "It's already been a good thirty minutes. They're running out of time."

With that, Garrett disappears, and the door shuts behind him, leaving John alone and numb.

The words resound in John's ears.

_"You don't understand, John. You did this to your boys. This is your fault. You can't protect lambs by hiding them in a lion's den."_

He doesn't wait five minutes, but he waits until his brain knows how to make his legs move again, and he's out the door.

-o-

The map is just where Garrett says. It's crude, an elementary drawing, but John follows it with ease.

The map leads him to the back of the cemetery, where new plots are being laid. He doesn't know what he's looking for, where his kids are, because all he sees are headstones and two mounds of dirt.

From freshly dug graves. Unmarked graves.

It can't be.

It just can't...

John's mind is reeling and the world is tilting and tunneling and it just can't be true.

Seven disappearances. No trace ever found. All in the cemetery.

No one looks for dead bodies in a cemetery.

Ghosts aren't the only ones who kill in ritualistic and cruel ways.

John's knees nearly give out and he feels himself start to retch.

He wants to lie there and breathe and get his crap together, but there's no time for that. The longest anyone has survived being buried alive is two hours. Two hours, and John figures he's already out thirty minutes. That leaves 90 minutes.

The fastest he's ever dug a grave is just under that.

It makes him want to puke again.

He can only save one boy.

Looking up, he sees the two piles, sees the shovel planted in the ground, waiting for him.

He doesn't know how to process it, how to think about making that decision, to think about while he saves one, the other will die.

But it's time he doesn't have, and one is better than none, and maybe he'll dig faster, maybe the dirt will be so loose that it'll shave time off his dig, maybe he can do this.

He stands and reaches for the shovel, tackling the first grave he sees.

There's no other option.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Darkness Shall Follow

Rating: PG-13 for creepiness and violence, gen

A/N: First of all, um, WOW. I so was not expecting that kind of response. It makes me a little nervous with the rest, because I'd hate to disappoint. But, like I said, three more parts and an epilogue to go. All my notes on chapter one still stand. This is NOT a deathfic, but it's a bit dark, but certainly not the darkest thing I've ever written. All love (still) to geminigrl11 who can break my heart and I still love her despite the fact that she mocks my pain. sendintheclowns is like a brainstorming GENIUS, no joke. And Brenna, who does more than she thinks. And to everyone who reviewed and read--just thanks :)

-o-

Chapter Two

He's good at digging graves, much better than anyone should be, and he's pretty sure he's moving faster than he ever has before. All he can think about is his sons, trapped in boxes, under the ground. He feels claustrophobic just thinking about it.

So he digs. He uses the shovel and frantically moves the dirt. He's sloppy and dirt is flying everywhere, each shovel full to the brim. His back aches. His arms scream with the strain. But he doesn't stop, can't stop, won't stop.

He can almost see them both, hear them both. Dean with his cocky smile. Sam with his chin jutted out in a brood. Just as they'd been this afternoon. Hours ago. When they were safe.

Tears are almost blinding him, but he doesn't really need to see. He feels himself drawn forward, drawn deeper, drawn to whichever child rests beneath him.

He tries not to think about that. Not to think about how he's standing on top of one of his sons. Tries not to think about how the other one is so close but not getting the help he needs.

It doesn't matter who it is.

It just matters that it's not both of them. That he's going to save one and probably condemn the other.

This destroys him either way.

-o-

When he sees the wood, he hears the pounding.

Someone inside of the coffin. Someone's calling, begging, _screaming_.

He rips the boards away with is bare hands, barely feeling the wood as it splinters in his grip. He needs to save him, needs to get him out.

And fists connect with his helping hands, punching then grasping then pulling.

He sees dirty blonde hair, an amulet, strong arms.

He sees Dean.

It's Dean, he's alive, he's okay, it's Dean.

Dean pushes himself up on shaking arms and he's breathing hard and sweating. He's blinking like crazy, like he's seeing for the first time, and John pulls him into his arms just like he's a child again, holding him close in the purest relief and love.

Dean breathes into him, hands groping somewhat blindly still. They don't say anything, they don't have to, the hug is enough, the touch relates the reassurance of life and protection that is still unbroken between them.

But then Dean pulls away, pushes himself away from his father, and takes a deep breath.

"Sam," he says, and his voice is hoarse, like he's been screaming and crying. "Where's Sam?"

Just like that, John's elation disappears completely and he's dumbstruck.

"Dad?" And damn it, if his son sounds like he's four and not twenty.

"He's buried," John manages, and Dean's eyes go wide.

"You didn't get him out?"

There's the rub, the problem, the failure.

Dean is pushing himself up, struggling to stand. "We have to get him out," he says.

He thinks Dean should sit down, Dean should take it easy, because Dean just got out of a coffin and he's pale, still too pale, and he's panting.

Dean stops, stops dead still, and looks at him. "We can't leave him down there," he says, and John can tell that Dean knows what he's talking about. "We can't leave him."

-o-

John's done the math thirteen times. Each time it comes up the same.

They will never be fast enough.

It's already too late.

No matter how he rounds, how he fudges, his baby boy has already run out of oxygen. They're digging up a corpse.

The fact makes him stagger and he nearly falls to his knees.

"Dean." He barely recognizes his own voice. It's empty and broken and terrified.

Dean doesn't hear him or doesn't listen. His actions are losing their focus, losing their accuracy, and dirt is flailing all over both of them.

"Dean," he says again, this time pleading and desperate.

Dean's panting breaks on a sob but he doesn't stop. He can't, he won't, he never could.

And John feels himself breaking and he reaches out and grabs his son, grabs him hard and without giving him an inch. "Dean."

There is a struggle, but it is weak and it is without strength. Dean can't even see him, his eyes are blind with tears as he looks at his father. "Sam--"

Dean stares at him, eyes wide and full.

There is no way to make this easier, no way to say it nicer. "It's too late."

Dean shakes his head, tries to argue. He's trembling and can't catch his breath.

"It's too late," John says again, letting the words sink into both of them like a brand that sears the soul.

They stand there for a second, Dean wavering in John's grasp, John barely holding it together. Failure passes between them, failure and resignation and utter hopelessness. Because there is no recovering from this. There is no plan B. This is the failure that kills them both, and they can both feel it happening, sapping their energy, their will, their strength.

They're a heartbeat away from disaster, a fleeting second away from losing everything.

Then an ounce of defiance gurgles up from within Dean and he's pulling away. He's fighting again. "No," he says, his voice throaty and barely human. "No."

And John wants to stop him, wants to shake him and say _it's over, we lost, we _lost, but he can't. He can't do anything. He just stands there while Dean wrenches from his grasp and grips the shovel like a lifeline and digs with a ferocity that John has never seen before.

John just stands there, covered in dirt, feeling the distant urge to cry.

Dean runs into him, falls into him, and anger replaces the grief in his son's eyes. "Dig!"

His voice is hysterical, sounds like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

"You dig, damn it! He's your son! You will dig him out!"

There is such a foreign look in Dean's eyes that John is shocked into motion. Without feeling, his own hands tighten around his shovel and he rejoins the pursuit.

It's a painful dig, now, not one of urgency, but of denial, and that weight hovers all around. But they don't stop. They may lose, but they'll never quit.

-o-

They hit wood and Dean loses it.

It's John who has to open it--carefully breaking the top and peeling away the boards. Dean's on his hands and knees, scrabbling at the dirt ineffectively, crying the entire time, and they're not going to get anywhere like that. John knows they've come this far, they have to finish this.

Then when the boards finally come away, John finds that he can't move, he can't think, he can't breathe.

Because there's Sam, his youngest son, lying still and pale. His eyes are closed and his lids are tinted blue. His dark lips are parted slightly almost as though he could speak at any minute. The dark hair that John so often laments is strewn limply about his forehead, tainted and curled with evaporated sweat.

He's not moving.

Not even a little.

Neither is John.

Dean moves enough for all of them, with frantic and desperate movements that speak of the deepest denial and grief John can imagine.

Dean rips the rest of the boards away to reveal Sam's body, long and skinny in the box. The younger boy's arms have fallen to the side, the long fingers limp and lifeless. His blue t-shirt is rumpled and stained. He should have his jacket on, because it's cold--too cold--John thinks, and he doesn't know where it is or why Sam doesn't have it and wonders if the boy lost it. He'd probably yell at the kid if he wasn't so still, if he wasn't so pale, if he wasn't so...

Oh, God…

He can't breathe.

Sam's dead.

He knew it already, had known it ten minutes ago, but it doesn't make it easier.

Sam's dead.

He's in a coffin, a mound of dirt all around him, the two people who promised to keep him safe standing over him, and he's dead.

And John's pretty sure he's dead too. That standing there, numb and cold and blank, that he's just as dead as his baby boy. His heart just doesn't know it yet.

Dean doesn't either. About either of them.

Dean's screaming, but John can't hear what he's saying, he's not even sure Dean is using words. Dean is grabbing at Sam, pulling at the younger boy who doesn't respond to his brother's touch.

Sam's body has no life and it flops in Dean's unsteady hands. But Dean doesn't notice, doesn't care. He hauls his brother up, sitting in the coffin with him, pulling Sam's chest against his own, burying his head into Sam's shoulder.

Sam's head falls back, his hair falling long away from his head. His arms drag back, sliding against the wood as his brother rocks him.

John just watches, watches like he's not even there, like he's watching some movie playing out before him that he can't stop or change or even comment on, just witness. He stands with his arms unmoving at his sides on legs he can't feel and he's not even sure he's breathing. He's never felt so powerless, so useless, so utterly pathetic--not even in the days after Mary died when all he could do was sit and stare at the wall has he felt this impotent.

Dean's cries are far away. His grieved motions are untouchable. John can only watch as his older son tries to revive his younger. He wants to stop Dean, to tell him it's too late, but he doesn't have the heart, doesn't have the will, doesn't have the power.

Dean pulls away so he can look at Sam. His hands are on Sam, probing, trying. They go over his chest, his neck, his face. Fingers on his pulse point on his cheeks, searching for any sign of life. Sam doesn't move, doesn't twitch, just lays there while his brother tries to salvage something from John's mistake.

Then Dean is leaning over him, curled over him, shaking him. When that yields nothing, Dean nearly collapses, his forehead to his brothers, his lips to Sam's cheek, showing more affection than John has permitted since they were young.

And then something changes. Dean snaps. His grief breaks and his denial flares up. "No."

He drops his brother down, moves himself so he's on his knees in the confined space, still cradling his brother's head. Then he leans over and for a second John thinks he's going to kiss him, but instead Dean breathes into his brother's mouth.

John's distance shatters suddenly, with a rush of life and coldness, John is there again at his sons' sides. He can't let this happen. He needs to help them, he needs to help Dean, he needs to help Dean let Sam go.

"Dean..." He is reaching for Dean, reaching for the only son he can help now.

"He's not..."

There are no words that aren't cruel, so John says nothing, keeps his hand heavy on Dean's shoulder.

Dean breathes again, his free hand touching the side of Sam's cold face.

John's about to speak, about to do something, when Dean shrieks.

"He's not dead," he says, and this time it's not denial, it's not desperation, it's belief and truth and relief. "Sammy!"

And just like that John sees a miracle.

Dean is crying again, tears of joy now, tears of shock, and Sam is still limp in his arms, limp but trembling.

His skinny chest hitches ever so slightly forward and his mouth gapes for air.

"He's alive," Dean says again, almost choking on the words in utter joy.

It can't be...

John's afraid to believe. He knows the math. He knows what was said to him. He knows he lost one son tonight at the price of his arrogance. He knows it...

But Sam is breathing. Alive and breathing.

But they're all still in the hole, both boys in the coffin, and that's not okay.

He bends down to take Sam, to raise Sam up, but Dean's grip is fierce and he's not letting go. Dean doesn't know how to let go. He's been holding onto Sam since he was four years old and it's pretty clear he's not about to start now, not for anything.

"We need to get him out of here," John reasons, sounding far saner than he feels.

Dean looks up at him for the first time in what seems like years and he looks young and barely put together. "He's going to be okay." There's a scary shade of hope and brokenness in Dean's voice, and John wonders how he'd forgotten that they really were just boys.

They need comfort and love and stability. They need the things that John doesn't know how to give the, doesn't have time to give them.

But he can offer them strength. It's all he has right now, welling up from a source he can't identify. "Of course he will," John says.

It's enough to subdue Dean and the older son relinquishes the younger to his father's arms.

Sam almost stirs, a faint flicker of awareness that diminishes as soon as it rises and Sam is slack in John's arms as he stands. He hefts Sam up, one arm under his son's knees, the other under his shoulders, and he pulls his son gently so he is rested against him, his head cradled in the crook of John's neck.

As he comes to his full height, he can feel Sam's cold skin against him, seeping through both their clothes, and Sam's messy hair tickles his neck and chin.

He pauses for a moment, holding his baby in his arms, striving to feel for himself the tiny tremors that constitute Sam's breathing. He's still worried--oxygen deprivation, organ failure, brain damage--but Sam's alive, and it's such an unexpected gift that John doesn't know how to understand the joy that is breaking his chest.

He doesn't know how to understand any of it. All he knows is this is his son, his baby.

Dean scrambles out of the grave, kneeling on the dirt, reaching down to help hoist Sam clear of the lip. All of a sudden, John's loathe to let go. Dean's arms are reaching, waiting, expectant, but John wants to hold Sam close. But he knows he doesn't have that right. Not now. Not after all this.

Carefully, John helps Dean lower Sam to the ground just beyond the edge of the grave. John doesn't let go until Sam is still and Dean adjusts his neck and limbs in some ridiculous notion of comfort.

John climbs out, and kneels next to Sam and begins a more processed assessment.

"He's weak," John says, pushing Sam's hair out of his eyes. "His breathing is still shallow."

It's an understatement. Sam's chest is barely moving and John keeps his other hand there just to be sure.

Dean's fidgety and nervous, practically bouncing on his heels. "Shouldn't he be waking up? Why isn't he waking up?"

John lets his hand slide across Sam's hair, a movement of comfort and solace. He doesn't want to answer, doesn't know how to answer.

"Sam, please," Dean says to his little brother. "Please."

John looks at his oldest, looks at how lost Dean looks and is scared again.

"Please, Dad, make Sam wake up," Dean says, his wide eyes meeting John's. He's so vulnerable, so young, and John can tell he's probably in shock himself. "Make this right."

And Dean's four years old again, looking at him with complete trust and faith and goodwill. There's no doubt in his eyes, no question, and John's the superhero who puts all the pieces back together.

Even if it's not true, even if he doesn't believe it himself, it's enough to make John act. His sons have lost too much, come too close tonight, for them to lose anything, even something as transient as belief.

"Come on," John says, moving to take Sam up again. "Let's get him to a hospital."

Dean follows, a little like a lost puppy, and Sam doesn't move, limbs dangling like a ragdoll, and he can't get to the car fast enough.

-o-

Dean and Sam are situated in the back, and he covered both of them with all the blankets he could find. Now he's trying to remember his route to the hospital and hoping that his hands are steady enough to drive.

John rotates the mirror so he can see the boys, so he can see Sam's still limp body cradled in his brother's arms. Even in the dimness, Sam still looks dead. The blue has faded some, but not all the way, and it's beginning to frighten John. Because Sam should be looking better at least, with the oxygen now, he should be breathing more, stronger, gaining color.

"Check his breathing, Dean," John orders, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

Dean complies without a word, leaning over his brother and straining. "He's barely breathing," Dean reports, and John can tell he's trying to keep his panic at bay too.

But he's breathing, and John figures at this point that's what counts. It's all they have, and it needs to be enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Darkness Shall Follow

A/N: Thanks again to everyone who has spent the time to read and review--it makes this process so very, very fun. All other notes and warnings are in chapter one.

* * *

Chapter Three

-o-

It's pretty clear the doctors and nurses don't really want them in the examination room while they work on Sam, but it's a small hospital, and there are questions that need to be asked, questions that need to be answered, so they humor John and Dean.

"What happened?"

It's such a simple question, such an obvious question, but John realizes he doesn't have a good story to tell them. He and Dean are back against the wall, watching, not quite close enough to hover. Dean doesn't seem to even hear the question, his focus is so intent on Sam. But John does, but doesn't want to.

"Sir? What happened?"

"The boys were kidnapped," he says, and his voice sounds funny. "Someone took them in the cemetery and buried them alive."

The entire medical team stops and stares at him, jaws dropping a little, not sure whether to be sympathetic or horrified.

"What?" the doctor asked.

A monitor started bleeping, drawing the medical team's attention back to the trauma at hand.

"The serial killer," John manages while they work. "The one who's been taking people. He tried to take my sons."

"And bury them?" The doubt in the doctor's voice is evident.

"It's true," Dean says, and everyone is so surprised to hear him speak that they all pause again.

Dean glances around nervously. "Sam and I were walking home and then things just went dark. When I woke up, I was in a small dark place. I couldn't get out. I thought...I thought I was going to die."

Dean's lie is almost true, far too true, and John is shocked by his son's ability to get him out of trouble.

The doctor is trying to multitask, trying to focus on the incredible story and his patient, but it's hard.

"How is he?" John asks, straining to see more of what was going on. In all the action, all the flurry, Sam is still unmoving.

They put a mask on Sam's face, hook up two IVs, and cut away his clothes to examine him. Sam is still and pale, pale and still, and John can see the frown on the doctor's face as he listens to Sam's chest.

"Was he conscious when you found him?"

John shakes his head. "No."

The frown deepens. "Has he shown any sign of awareness whatsoever?"

There's a nurse reading a monitor. "His O2 levels are still falling," she says.

The doctor moves to respond when another alarm wildly goes off. "He's seizing," the doctor announces. "Let's roll him to his side."

Watching Sam seize is surreal. His long limbs jerk, his head bounces, his entire body flails and there seems to be so much of Sam, too much of Sam. The doctor rolls Sam so he's facing John and Dean, and John can see the increase in blue in Sam's face and feels himself wanting to give in once and for all to the panic that's been barely at bay.

It's Dean who beats him to it, though, running toward Sam, as if to comfort his kid brother, save him. It's just second nature to Dean, and John's pretty sure Dean's not thinking anything through right now.

Then there's a commotion and a nurse is pushing Dean away, yelling at John to take care of his son because they need to work, they need some space, for Sam's sake.

But Dean's incoherent with it, completely, because Sam's never been this messed up before, they've never been this messed up before, and there's just not enough oxygen in this room at all.

Somehow he manages to grab Dean, who's not struggling with any strength at all. It's all just leaving his son and there are tears on his face and John wants to break down too.

But that won't fix anything. It never has. He cried and mourned for weeks and days but it didn't bring Mary back. It didn't give his sons a mother.

He failed that, and he doesn't want to think about failing this. He doesn't want to think about anything at all. Not about graves and shovels and seizures and serial killers.

He practically pushes his oldest son to the waiting room, and Dean stumbles forward in blind obedience. When they finally get there, John makes Dean sit, forces him to a chair before he remembers to breathe and gets a good look at his son.

Dean's a mess. He's covered with crusted dirt and his chest is heaving. Suspicious tracks smear the dirt on his face and he's looking at John desperately. "I need to be with him," he says, his voice breaking a little. "You said he's my responsibility."

It's the same line he's driven into Dean his entire life. So often it just made things easier. It let him focus on the hunt, and Dean could tend to Sam's trivial needs. It's his support system.

But it's wrong, he thinks with a new pain striking through his chest. It's wrong. "You're both _my _responsibility," he says, keeping a steady hand on Dean's shoulder as he crouches in front of him.

Dean just stares at him, almost like he's looking through him, and then his chin quivers just for a second before Dean takes a breath and visibly steadies himself.

And he loves his son, so much, that suddenly he can't take it. Dean is only 20 years old, and he's trying to be strong for his father. Few things bother Dean. Few things make it past the rough exterior that he's created, that they've created. But Dean's seen too much tonight, done too much. From being unearthed himself, to finding his brother practically dead, to seeing his brother seize, John knows this is too much to expect Dean to deal with.

It's too much for him to deal with.

They get hurt, sometimes, it's part of the job. But they get hurt on the job. Saving people. Killing the bad guy.

For only the second time in 16 years, this time they were victims, pure and simple.

This time there's no smoke and no fire, but he has two traumatized sons and the lingering guilt that it's all his fault.

He doesn't realize Dean is studying him until he speaks.

"Why didn't you save Sam?" Dean asks, almost in accusation.

John flinches, moving tiredly to the chair next to Dean. He feels old and weary. "I didn't know which was which," John tries to explain. "I just...I just dug. I did what I could."

It's weak, and it's not enough, and there isn't anger, none at all, but pain in Dean's eyes. He almost wishes there was.

"What happened, Dean?" he asks finally, looking for some way to make sense of this night.

Dean looks hard at the floor.

"Dean?" His voice is sharper than he intends.

"Sam and I were waiting, just like you told us to. Our packs were right next to us and we both had our guns. We were sitting next to each other, right along the ditch. There was no one there. There was nothing there. We didn't even see it coming."

Dean speaks like he hopes it's all a nightmare, that somehow he'll wake up and the tragedy will not be so real.

So John does what he does best. He makes a promise that he's not sure he can keep, but he won't admit that ever, not until it's far, far too late. "It's okay," he says. "Sam's going to be okay."

It's such a ridiculous lie that John himself feels guilty for telling it.

But Dean believes him. He doesn't know how or why but Dean believes every word he's saying. Dean believes in him. Not because he's right, not because he's earned it, but because it's what Dean does. It's how Dean operates. It's all Dean has.

He's created a strong, proud, capable, and utterly dependent boy. His good little soldier is perfect to a fault. Too willing to accept, to be placated even when he shouldn't be.

For a second, time freezes, slows down, something, and John feels himself separate from reality once again. He's seeing it all, everything--he sees himself in the chair, not nearly close enough to Dean, looking, waiting, doing nothing. Nothing.

Dean is hunched over, curved over. His face still has faded tears that John thinks may never go away, and he can't stop moving, can't stop twitching, but he believes and it's written all over him--in his face, in his slouch, in his jitters. He believes, and it hurts him to believe, it costs him everything he has, almost cost him his life, almost cost him his brother.

John wants to reach out and touch him, hug him, make it right, make it better, but he can't move no more than he can fix anything anymore. Because he did this. This is his fault. He didn't bury his sons in the ground, but he brought them here. He put them in this situation and he can't run from that and he wishes like hell Dean would just let himself realize it, say it, and make it real.

But Dean says nothing, does nothing, just sits next to his father silently, waiting and trusting.

And John puts his head in his hands, thinking he should pray, but not remembering how.

-o-

The wait seems long, interminable, and it passes in silence. John just wants this to be over. He just wants to take his boys and get the hell out of this town and never look back. He's not sure what he'd trade for that at this point, but he's pretty sure it's a lot, if anyone would just listen.

The doctor is there and John realizes it's not over yet. The doctor is middle aged and gray and tired looking. He comes over to John without asking and when John doesn't get up, he sinks into the chair next to him. "Mr. Winchester," he begins in a perfunctory way. "I'm Dr. Vaught," he says. "I was the one treating Sam."

There's a pause and John finally asks, "How is he?"

Dean is looking at the doctor almost in fear, with a desperate hope.

"Well, he's stable for now," he says, but it's not reassuring. "But I'm afraid Sam's slipped into a coma. When deprived of oxygen, the body makes choices, triages its parts, and shuts down everything else to try to survive."

John's listening and he's nodded but he's not sure it makes sense. He hears it, but he doesn't know how to understand it.

The doctor is watching him, carefully, and waits until he's sure John can handle it before he continues. "You saw that he suffered a seizure, and I would guess that wasn't the only one. Seizures are the brain's way of responding to trauma, so it worries me that Sam has suffered at least one. We do have him on medication to help prevent any future ones, and his EEG clearly shows some signs of continued seizure activity, which we're watching very closely."

There's a brief pause and the doctor forces him to make eye contact.

"He was also hypothermic when you brought him in, but we've already got his body temp returning to normal, so it shouldn't be a problem. In fact, the hypothermia probably saved Sam's life. The cold slowed down Sam's body enough to keep his brain from too much damage. Had he been at normal temperature, it's likely your son would be dead already."

He pauses again and swallows and John feels his insides go cold.

"Mr. Winchester, we also did an MRI. The scans indicate there may be damage to Sam's temporal lobe." His voice is soft and gentle and his eyes are sympathetic. "The seizure may be indicative of damage. The brain can only survive so long when deprived of oxygen. If it goes too long, brain cells begin to die. We'll need to run more tests to try to confirm damage."

John feels like his world has fallen apart all over again. It's like losing Mary, digging the boys up, dying. He blinks up at the doctor, his jaw slack. "When will we know?"

The doctor's smile is small. "We can run a few more tests, but it's impossible to say until Sam wakes up."

John can feel Dean flinch at the words like they are blows. He swallows hard against the lump in his throat. "Can we see him?"

-o-

Sam looks better than before, in the sense that he's lost the tinge of blue that had so unnerved John earlier.

But the kid is hooked up machines and monitors and John hates that more than the blueness almost.

He hears Dean inhale sharply and he knows this is hard on him. He thinks he should comfort him, but he can't make himself move. Instead he stands very still, his knees locked so they won't give in, and watches his son breathe.

He studies his features, looks at him with an intensity he hasn't expressed since the boys were newborns and he first held them.

Most of Sam is covered with a sheet and his hands are folded neatly on top of his stomach. His hair falls limply from his head, exposing his smooth forehead. The bed looks messy and cluttered with all the tubes and wires and John wishes he could clean it up somehow. Sam always did like things to be neat.

"God, Dad," Dean breathes, shoving his hands into his pockets, his shoulders sagging.

John doesn't know how to answer, so he just keeps watching Sam, almost afraid to blink.

There's tape securing the tube in Sammy's mouth, and it looks uncomfortable and itchy and it's hiding the mole right next to his boy's mouth. He wants to take it off for some reason, but he knows that's a stupid idea, a stupid thought and he wishes he could think of something a little smarter, a little more comforting.

But as he sits down, it hits him again what happened. That his boys were buried alive. That he nearly lost them both. That Sam's in a coma and could have brain damage and that Dean's in shock and probably some form of posttraumatic stress and he doesn't know how to fix any of it.

-o-

Tragedy is solidifying, if nothing else, and he seems to remember Mary telling him once that sometimes God lets people hurt so they can learn and grow.

It's just one of the reasons that he hates God, because he's not sure what good he can learn from this. Because he's useless and helpless, and all he wants to do is make it right. To fix it. To make it better.

He can't.

There are no promises he can make. There are no tricks he can pull from his bag. For nearly three days all he can do is sit and wait like any other human being on the face of this earth.

In the hours as he waits by Sam's bedside, he thinks a lot, thinks and remembers. Dean stays with him, and they go only enough to appease the hospital staff. But their minds are always here, always with Sam, and they don't really have any other place to go, no one else to call, to get support from. They say they need to be there for Sam, but John wonders if they need Sam to be there for them. Because sitting and staring and sleeping certainly isn't helping Sam.

But it's all John can do. His mind seems vulnerable, his defenses all downed by the medicine and the machines. And the memories come from nowhere, some pleasant, some not, more troubling than soothing.

-o-

He remembers Dean's first kill. It had been a warm night, the summer in Alabama, nothing like tonight, but he still smells the blood in the air. Dean's aim had been perfect. The entire thing was flawless. But he could still see it, the hollowness in Dean's eyes the second he made the kill shot.

At the time, he'd clapped Dean on the shoulder and told him he was proud.

Pride had swelled in the boy, and the hollowness had been replaced, which had just made John prouder. That's all Dean needed--a little approval, small shows of love and trust, and the boy flourished. John had never seen the hollowness again.

Until this.

He sees it now. He sees it in the way Dean looks at his little brother, like his heart's broken, and then when he looks at his father like he's trying to pretend like it's not.

He wonders why he lets that slide, why he lets Dean pretend to be strong, why he forces Dean to be strong, to be someone that he isn't. Dean deserves more than that, deserves normalcy and stability. And somewhere inside of him, John remembers the little boy Dean had been, how happy and how free and how pure he'd been, and he wishes sometimes that Dean fought for that just as much as Sam does.

But when it comes to fighting, they all have enough of that. John likes to blame his youngest for that, say it's Sam rebellious nature, but he knows that's not really true.

He remembers when Sam was born, the first time he held him. Sam was so small, so delicate, so perfect, and his small face had scrunched up in a cry of discontent. John had rocked him, soothed him gently, and John can still hear himself whispering promises to his newborn son. Promises of love and protection and support. Promises every father owes his sons.

Sam can't remember them, and John knows he's never really followed through on any of them, and that Dean can at least appreciate what he lost. Sam can't recognize what he's never had, but he's always yearned for them, and it's made things difficult. He can't really blame the kid for wanting what he deserves, no matter how it comes across. He shouldn't blame him, and he hates himself a little that he does.

John watches both his sons sleep--Sam on the bed, the machines blinking all around him, Dean in the chair, curled up awkwardly. They are both waiting, waiting on each other, waiting on him, waiting for the chances they should have, the chances that John sometimes withheld from them in the name of the greater good.

He has an urge to brush Sam's hair out of his eyes and to cover Dean with a blanket, to do something to ease their rest. But the only things he can really think of that would make a difference are things he should have done two decades ago when all of this began.

-o-

The doctor only manages to convince John to leave Sam's side when the cops come and want to talk to him. He should have expected this, but he's not really thinking straight. He doesn't want to talk to them, doesn't want to talk to anybody, but there's not much choice, and he knows there are probably seven other bodies in that cemetery that need to be dug up and he's not the one to do it.

That's when the doctor also wants to check Dean out, since the staff slowly put together that Dean may need help too. Dean doesn't think so, and John doesn't want to make him, but everyone's looking at him to be the adult, so he puts a simple hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Just for a few minutes, son," he says. "While I talk to the cops."

Dean looks like he wants to protest, but John narrows his eyes and makes it an order, and Dean follows a nurse out of the room wordlessly, casting a glance at his brother before he disappears into the hall.

The cops, a pair of young kids, both in their twenties, wait for Dean to leave before they start. "Do you want to go to the hallway?" one asks, looking purposefully at Sam.

"No," John says, looking at his boy as well. Sam's still in a coma, still stretched out on the bed, and John's trying to get that image out of his mind, but the only other one he comes up with is the image of Sam in the coffin. "No, we'll stay."

They nod. "Can you tell us what happened, Mr. Winchester?"

And John doesn't even know where to begin.

-o-

He doesn't tell them about the real grave he unearthed that night. He doesn't tell them about spirits and ghosts and the reason why they move around so much. But he does tell them about Garrett, about how he abducted both boys and buried them alive. He tells them how he unburied both of them, but maybe not in time.

They tell him about the meager clues, about how this is a huge break, how they think this could be the break they're looking for.

Then they look at Sam, a little sheepish, and say they're sorry for everything, that they'll keep him informed, that if he remembers anything to please let them know. And they leave before they have to look too much at Sam.

And for the first time John thinks about Garrett, thinks about how he pulled it off. The man is smart, John doesn't doubt that, and they've been there for nearly a month and not picked up on any human trails.

He wonders how long Garrett was trailing him, how long he'd been setting him up. He shivers involuntary. Garrett knew everything. He knew how they worked. He knew what they did.

It had been perfectly executed. The graves must have been dug in advanced, ready and waiting for the boys. He imagines that he'd overheard everything they'd said that night, had seen their every move.

It does bother him that the boys broke Garrett's pattern, that it's always been one victim, and this time it was two.

But as he remembers the smirk on Garrett's face, the words he spoke, John knows this one was special for Garrett, it was personal. This hadn't been about the boys, it'd been about him and Garrett's power, pure and simple.

The hunter in John can't help but be a little awed at its perfection.

The father in John is disgusted. Someone had hunted him, his boys, had turned the tables and made him the victim.

He tentatively reaches out, takes Sam's lax hand in his and tries to feel its warmth and life. He thinks about the way that hand holds a gun, holds a pencil. The way it swats at Dean. The fingers are long and thin and strong.

It's not the hand of a victim. It's not the hand of someone's prey. It's not even the hand of a hunter.

It's the hand of his son. This is his son, and he doesn't want to forget that.

-o-

Day and night seem the same and John realizes that he doesn't know how long they've been here. Since Dean's been given the okay from the docs, John finds himself watching his son more closely. Because he knows Dean's not okay. He remembers the panic in Dean's eyes, that look of desperation and denial and fear and he knows that something inside his oldest son has to be broken, he just doesn't know what.

But Dean won't let it show. He's taken to making wise-cracks again, trying to ease the mood, even making them to his brother and laughing hard enough for all three of them to make it seem right. But he's falling flat, his humor is weak, and they're barely keeping it together.

And John hates himself, so much, for letting Dean go neglected in all of this. The doctors and nurses can see it, even the cops can, that Dean's not with it, he's not quite right, that something happened to Dean and he needs to deal with it.

There's no right time to do that though, and seeing Sam lying there so still really does give him pause, but his will is fleeting at best, so he decides to get it over with.

Dean's jiggling his knees, shifting from sitting back in his chair to leaning forward on his knees, eyes on his brother the entire time.

"Dean," he says.

Dean doesn't really reply, just sort of makes a sound in the back of his throat.

"Dean," he says again.

This time Dean looks up, a little weary and a little annoyed. "What?"

"Dean, what do you remember?" He's asked the question before, but he drops his voice down low now, to a pitch that evokes privacy and safety, the voice he used to use to murmur Dean off to sleep when Mary first died.

Dean's eyes dart down and away, and John can see the evasion clearly. "You know," Dean says, trying to smile and offering a shrug.

John just waits, knowing his silence will be enough.

Sure enough, his oldest son's attempt at humor breaks and his smile falls. He waits a second longer, his mouth trembling with unspoken words, before he finally begins. "It was so dark," Dean says, his voice shaking a little. "So dark that I couldn't tell if my eyes were open or closed."

John can't help but close his eyes in sympathy. When he opens them, Dean is looking through the wall.

"I thought I was dreaming," Dean explains. "I had to be dreaming. Because nothing could ever be _that_ bad."

The silence is filled with the sound of Sam's ventilator, and it's oddly soothing. Dean glances at his brother.

"Then I remembered a little, about how I got there. It was so perfectly executed. We didn't even see it coming. One minute we were just sitting there, the next Sam's falling on top of me. I tried to catch him, but then everything just went blank."

John knows that Garrett had to have staked them out for hours in order to get the drop on them. His boys are young, but they're not stupid. And they're good at what they do.

Dean looks back at the wall, somewhat crestfallen. This isn't easy, and John wishes he could keep the memories from being real.

"At first I hyperventilated," Dean admitted with a sad smile, "because I couldn't move. It was completely dark and I couldn't lift my head more than two inches off the ground. I could barely even get into my pockets, but my knife was gone. I was convinced you'd kill me for losing it."

He laughs at that, at how ridiculous it seems. But his smile crumbles.

"Then I thought about Sam and just hoped that he wasn't in the same position." He stops and grits his teeth a little. "I should never have let him be in that position."

There's a sense of failure in Dean's words, and that's not something John can stomach. This isn't Dean's fault. And failure will only make them all weak.

He reaches out his hand to his son for the second time in the last day and rests it on his shoulder. All he can think is that even though Dean's the one he saved in time, that Dean's the one he got out first, he's losing this son too. "This wasn't your fault, Dean."

Dean almost looks surprised as he meets his father's eyes. "Being down there, Dad," he says, "it messes with your head. For awhile I thought I was dead, that I was dead and coming back as a spirit. Sometimes I wished I was dead. Anything to stop from feeling so helpless."

John just sighs and tries not to cry. He's never been buried alive, but he sure knows what it's like to feel helpless.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This fic is winding down--there's one more section after this, so hopefully that will tie up the remaining loose ends. This seems a bit anticlimactic, but this is how the fic came to me--my goal was to not disrupt the canon timeline as we knew it and so this blends these events into the rest. I don't know. You'll see :) Thanks so much for those who are following and leaving reviews--it so makes my day (and trust me, right now, I need that--I'm in post-spring break letdown--it's funny how nice it is to go a whole week without spending every day with students). All other notes in chapter one.

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Chapter Four 

The doctor lets him stay while he checks Sam out this morning. He's already sent Dean back to the motel to shower and to eat, and so he's alone with Sam during morning rounds.

It's only been three days, but John already knows the routine. He knows what to expect, and watches the doctor with some secure sense of purpose.

Dr. Vaught is friendly in a detached way, and tries to make small talk with John, and often comments nicely on Sam's character, as if he can pick up Sam's personality through his stethoscope and monitors. He checks all the machines, listens carefully to Sam's heart, then checks for Sam's level of consciousness.

This is the part that John watches closely, hoping to see something in his boy as the doctor leans close and pokes and prods his son.

So far there's been nothing, not a twitch, which the doctor has tried to be realistic and gentle about. Because the machines suggest that Sam's level of consciousness is rising, his brain waves are stronger, but there's still no sign yet.

Today is different.

It's the same tests, same things, but this time when the doctor uses cold water on Sam's ear, Sam flinches.

Not a lot, just a little. His head turns slightly to the left and a tiny mewl of discomfort finds its way around the tube.

John is up like a flash, looking expectantly into Sam's face.

The doctor tries again. "Sam, can you hear me?"

Another moan and this time Sam's hands rise up of the bed, flailing a little. They don't make it very far before Sam goes just as still as before.

The doctor is all smiles as he pulls away and jots something down on Sam's chart.

John just stares, just waits, looking between Sam and the doctor.

"Sam is responding to stimuli," he announces, a hint of pleasure in his voice. "This means he's coming out of the coma."

John continues to stare, his mouth slightly open. "So when will he wake up?"

"Give him time, Mr. Winchester," Dr. Vaught advises, returning Sam's chart to the end of the bed. "His EEG is much stronger and now that he's showing response to stimuli, I'm very optimistic. But each patient works on their own time frame. Sam's already taking more and more breaths on his own, we should have him weaned off the ventilator by the end of the day so we can reduce his sedation and then we'll see how he starts responding."

The doctor says it all like it's such good news that John wants to be excited, wants to believe. But Sam's still lying there, unconscious and intubated, and John just wants his son back.

When he's alone again with Sam, he settles back into his chair, leaning in close to Sam's bedside, watching Sam with all he has.

He wonders if Sam was awake at all while buried, if he remembers things like Dean does, if he was scared, if he cried, if he believed his dad would save him.

He wonders if Sam passed out believing in that, he wonders if Sam will know his father almost left him for dead, if Sam will be okay, and if Sam will ever forgive him for this, for everything.

-o-

When Dean hears that Sam is waking up, Dean changes and doesn't really look back.

The fear and the worry that had crippled his son, that had made him seem young and vulnerable, nearly vanish altogether.

Now he sits by Sam's side with the confidence and ego that defines him. There's no _if_ anymore, it's just _when_ and Dean's sure to tell that to everyone he can, even though all the doctors and nurses are already well aware of that. He doesn't even listen when they try to tell him that Sam might not be the same, that Sam might have some troubles, because Dean knows his little brother, and Sammy's coming out of this just fine.

John doesn't know where the kid gets the strength, but it leaves him a little awestruck. He'll sit back in his chair and just watch as his oldest son talks to Sam. And he doesn't talk to his kid brother like it's the hospital bedside that it is; no, Dean talks to him like it's just the two of them fighting over who gets to ride shotgun or the best way to waste a spirit.

True to his word, Dr. Vaught extubates Sam that afternoon, a process that makes Sam gag and choke. But once it's out Sam's still breathing, a little heavy and strained, but breathing, and Dean's patter of conversation rises a notch. Now he's touching Sam, patting him on the shoulder, fiddling with his hair--anything to elicit a reaction from the younger boy.

Sam never could deny Dean anything, so John isn't really surprised when Dean's antics pay off and Sam opens his eyes.

"Hey there, little brother," Dean says cheerily, leaning down carefully to get in Sam's line of vision.

Sam's face contorts in a grimace and his mouth tries to open. His eyes struggle for focus and his breathing picks up as he tries to make sense of the world.

"Easy," Dean soothes, and John sucks in a breath and holds it.

Finally Sam's eyes focus and settle on his brother. Dean's smile splits his face wide and John thinks he can almost see tears in Dean's eyes. Sam swallows hard, wincing as he does. His forehead scrunches up and he tries to speak.

The sound that comes out is garbled and awful-sounding, but it sounds like _Dean_ all the same.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean says. "I'm right here."

Sam just stares for a minute more before he blinks again, sluggishly. His eyes are drifting and there's a flash of dimple on his cheek.

"You're going to be fine," Dean whispers, and for the first time, John believes him.

-o-

For a few days, it's like they've regressed fifteen years. Sam is needy and withdrawn, and Dean is everpresent and effusive. John's not sure where he fits in, but he's always there, because it seems like the least he can do.

It takes a day, but by Sam's fourth day in the hospital, he's fully aware. The tests all come back with encouraging results, and Sam's being cleared from significant damage. His memory is gone from the night of the attack, and the kid seems edgy and uncertain, but all the higher reasoning skills are there, and the doctor thinks Sam's withdrawal is psychological.

John tries not to think about it, tries not to consider the idea that both his boys may be damaged to a point that needs help, because if it he ignores it long enough, he thinks it can normalize, he thinks it can all work out, and they can go on just like before.

But Dean will hardly leave at all now that Sam's awake, always perched next to Sam's bed, waiting to see his eyes and greet him with a familiar smile. That can't be good for Dean, he knows, because his oldest son needs space and nourishment and reassurance too. Convincing Dean to even go to the bathroom is like work anymore.

He only can do it when Sam's asleep, and he appeals to the logic that Dean's no good to Sam if he's neglecting himself, and he watches his son shuffle out of the room and wonders how he ever created a son that attuned to the needs of others. He wishes Dean could stand on his own, that Dean could admit his own needs and fears.

But there's no time for that, especially since Sam's stirring.

He's already moving to Sam's side, but he's not fast enough and Sam whimpers to awareness. Sam's still more emotional than John is comfortable with, and the doctors say it's pretty normal even if Sam can't remember. It hurts him to see, to witness, because Sam is strong and independent, and this has left his son broken and that's his fault, just like it's all been his fault.

"Dean?" Sam asks, blinking heavily and his voice still strained and raspy from the tube.

John leans over him, takes a risk and lets his hand rest on Sam's head like he would when he was a child. "He's just down the hall," John assures him.

Sam's eyes are focusing now and he recognizes John and seems to relax a little. "He's okay, right? He's coming back?"

"Of course," John says easily.

Sam nods a little, and shifts. "I don't want to be alone."

John swallows hard against that. "Never," he promises.

-o-

John's getting himself some coffee and when he comes back he hears Sam laughing.

"Whatever, man," Sam is saying. "All I could think about was how you wouldn't be scared."

He can barely see Dean, sitting in the chair at the end of Sam's bed. He's looking at his hands, trying really hard to smile. "When Dad found me first, and I realized you were still down there..." His voice trails off.

Sam just snorts, but his tone of voice carries of level of compassion that takes John by surprise. "I never doubted that you'd find me," Sam says. "You always do."

At this, Dean forces a laugh. "A little brain damage makes you all girly, Sammy," he says.

He can almost hear Sam rolling his eyes. "Yeah, so what's your excuse?"

And both boys laugh and John's heart aches. When he finally walks in, sipping his coffee, both boys look brighter and healthier than they have in weeks.

-o-

By the end of Sam's week there, Dean has worked wonders on his kid brother, and the nurses and doctors dote on Sam and tell him what an amazing kid he has. And Sam does flourish in a way he doesn't at home, grinning shyly at their praise, going above and beyond just because they ask him nicely and smile at him while he does it. With Sam's strength returning, Dean's comfort level skyrockets, and John can see shades of how things used to be. Dean is snarky and calming, Sam is tenacious and petulant, and he's gruff and detached through it all. They're clinging to that dynamic for a sense of normalcy none of them feel, and so far it's working okay.

As usual, Sam's obedient to anyone but him, so he's eating his dinner like a good little patient, and telling John how tired he is of being here. "I'm missing so much school," he explains, so logically and plaintively.

Except it's not the right argument at all to make with John, and John feels his frustrations creep back in. It's been easier lately, with so much focus on getting Sam okay, but now that the kid is almost there, okay is wearing thin. "You need to gain your strength back," John says, because he doesn't want to admit that he's afraid of seeing his son so weak.

Because John is afraid. He's afraid to take his boys out of this hospital and back into a world where he's not sure he can protect them. It means more work, more risks, and more energy, and if they can barely survive each other's company in a hospital, he's not sure how they'll manage in seedy motel rooms.

"I don't need that much strength to study math," Sam grumbles, shoveling a bite into his mouth.

John tries not to glare. The doctors say that Sam needs to be kept calm and relaxed and that he needs to be upbeat and positive. Clearly they know nothing about living with a teenager who doesn't see things his way at all. "No," he agreed. "But you do need to get yourself ready to get back into training. You've been out of it for almost a week."

Sam's eyes darken and a haunted scowl crosses his forehead. "Can't we take a break? Spend some time as a family or something?"

At that, John's a little incredulous. He raises his eyebrows at the boy. "A break? You think evil will just take a break?"

He knows it isn't fair to say, not after this, but John can't stop himself. It's the same conversation he's had so many times. So often that he's not even surprised by Sam's retort. "After all this, I'd think we'd be able to see that life is more than hunting."

"I'm just trying to protect you," John erupts, shoving himself off the chair.

Sam's a smart kid, and he can be a sweet kid, but he's just a kid. "Great, which is how I ended up here," he mutters.

And that about does it, it's about all John can handle. It doesn't matter that Sam's right, that Sam's hit the nail on the head, that Sam's managed to expose all of his fears and doubts right there. John's prouder than he knows how to deal with. He stands. "Fine," he says. "Then I'll just leave you to fend for yourself for awhile and see how well it goes."

He makes it in a huff to the door when Sam's voice stops him. "Dad."

Sam's voice cracks and there's a suspicious tone of fear and pleading in it.

John turns to look at his son, and is surprised to find the boy strickened.

"Just stay, okay?" Sam asks, and John's heart breaks.

He's not mad at Sam, he's mad at himself. Mad that he couldn't save his son from this, mad that he hasn't managed to give his boys the lives they deserve, mad that he's failed so much. Mad that he shouldn't be reaming out his son, but telling him that he's right, that he loves him. But he can't say that, doesn't know how to say that.

In that moment, his son's not rebellious, his son's not petulant, his son's not a hunter. His son is just a boy who's lived through more than any kid should, and all John can do is yell when he's not living up to impossible standards.

He doesn't say a word, just steps back in the room and sinks back into his chair. Sam watches him, a little scared and a little nervous, and waits a minute before he starts to pick at his food again. But the energy and life seems to have abated in Sam, and he barely touches the rest of his food. Instead he pushes it away and mumbles something about being tired before curling on his side and going to sleep.

John sits there, watching Sam breathe, and tries to figure out the balance. How can he protect them without preparing them? How can he prepare them without putting them in danger?

There are no answers, just Sam's quiet snores, as the hours fade away.

-o-

Sam's going to be okay, John doesn't doubt that at all now, and Dean doesn't even need to hear it. John's anxious to get them home, out of this hospital, because the longer they stay, the more the doctors seem to want to talk about each boys' psychological states, and he doesn't think he can risk either boy talking to a shrink.

Besides, the hospital is just a reminder of what happened, of injury and illness, and they're all ready to put that behind them, so John gets Sam checked out as soon as he can. Dean is restless, nearly driving the staff insane, and Sam is moody and difficult, nearly driving John insane.

Sam's a little wobbly, but Dean's right there, ready if Sam needs anything. They don't speak, they don't have to, and Dean is so close to his brother that they're practically touching, but not quite. His boys stand by themselves, the proximity enough to keep all of them upright.

"You boys ready?" he asks, shouldering their things.

Sam scowls a little. "Let's just go."

John says nothing in acquiescence. Instead he moves them forward. The staff asked them to wait for a nurse to get a wheelchair, but he's pretty sure none of them want to deal with that, so he leads their trek out anyway.

The walk isn't long, but it's tiring, especially for Sam. Sam gripes a little for good measure, but despite the exhaustion and the frustration and all the crap that's happened, it's pretty clear that Sam is anxious to get home.

In that moment, it's a little like seeing both his boys for the first time again. Watches them interact, watches the nuances of their movement. Each boy holds so much potential, so many emotions, and John doesn't know how many he's missed out on.

Dean will be strong even when he's not, because he feels like he needs to be here for everyone else. It's something beautiful and worrisome about his son.

Sam's different, though, and not as easy to figure out. John can see a lot of feelings in Sam--a lot of anger, a lot of resentment, a lot of pain--but the one thing John doesn't see is hate.

Instead he sees a boy who wants more and never gets it, no matter what he does. He sees a boy who just wants to hear _I love you_ but will shout _I hate you _to get his point across.

John knows, because when he says _no_, he really means_ I'm afraid for you_.

But they're Winchesters, and they've never been good at talking, and sometimes now, John has to admit, talking to Sam can be like talking through six feet of dirt.

-o-

John thinks they may be in the clear, that this event made fade away like most of the other tragedies in their lives. Sam's been at home for nearly three days and he's adjusting well, moving forward, and despite small comments to the contrary, Sam's flourishing in his training. Dean is nearly bursting with himself, he'll even leave home for his part time job and the occasional social outing, and it's beginning to feel good and normal.

Until they find the bodies on the news.

Seven of them, just like John suspected, all buried in unmarked plots in the same cemetery John had found the boys. It is a horrific scene, and it's splashed all over the news, the newspapers, everything.

He really should have thought about the effect that would have on the boys, but he doesn't think about it until it's already too late.

He's making dinner and the boys are in the living room, bickering and watching TV. Then the apartment gets quiet.

John's attuned to that kind of thing and pokes his head out to make a joke at his children's sudden silence. But then he sees them, both staring at the TV.

The TV has images of body bags, holes in the ground, and cemetery plots.

Dean looks blank, his face slack, as if he's not quite sure what to think.

Sam looks like he's about to pass out, pale and shaky and weak.

John strides over and shuts of the TV. "I'm sorry," he says because he can't think of anything else. "You shouldn't have had to..."

But he can't finish, because Dean's looking at him with that look of trust and fear again and Sam's not really looking at anything at all.

-o-

That night Sam wakes up from a nightmare screaming and crying and babbling.

"God, Dad, make it stop, make it stop," he's begging when John and Dean come to his bedside. They pick him up, put their hands on him, try to soothe him, but Sam's sobbing with it, thrashing. "I can't breathe, please, I don't want to die."

It's one of the hardest things John's ever had to witness, and he sees Dean breaking with his brother's words. His sons are broken together in this, even though neither will admit it, Dean won't even admit it in his sleep, the one place where Sam's not quite able to let it go.

It passes and Sam calms, drifting back to sleep, his brother not far behind. And as John sits there, he watches his sons on the bed, Sam entangled on the sheets, Dean on top of them, he can't stop himself from wondering.

This is his family, his boys, all he has left. But they're fractured and difficult and John doesn't know how to fix it.

He's wondered for years what he can forgive, how much insubordination he can take, how much defiance he can stomach. Sam has pushed him and tested him, and they still haven't broken yet, but John wonders if there will be a day.

Just like he wonders how much Dean can take, how much Dean can obey, how far Dean will follow orders before he realizes that John's making this up as he goes.

And, for goodness' sake, he wonders when he'll let his sons be boys. When he'll just recognize that Sam's desire for more isn't selfish, isn't wrong. When he'll tell Dean that life isn't all about orders, that maybe sometimes he should be more like Sam. Both his boys deserve more, need more. Only one of them knows that, and he wonders how far gone he'd be if Sam didn't call him on it, just like how he wonders how long ago he would have lost all his sense of purpose if Dean didn't reassure him of it.

But for the first time he wonders, really wonders, how much he can do before he's beyond redemption. He doesn't know how far he can take his sons, how far he can push them before they fall, how deep he can take them into all this until they are consumed. He doesn't know how many years are worth vengeance, how many hunts are worth Mary's legacy, how many moments of happiness and joy he can miss before he's passed the point of honor and reached the depths of obsession.

He leaves before he cries but he doesn't sleep at all that night. He thinks about Mary, about the boys when they were little, about the cemetery, about the seven body bags, and all the families who were grieving that night.

-o-

They don't talk about it, not really, and all of them move on. Sam still blanches a little when they go to cemeteries, and Dean is more vigilant than ever of his little brother, and John does all he can to plan and perfect and plan some more.

He doesn't tell them much about the man that did this, and they don't really ask, and the status quo returns with a silent promise to do better next time.

But Sam grows more defiant, and John's patience runs thin. He's always tried to protect his sons, and he doesn't understand why Sam won't have any part of it. It's like sometimes Sam forgets how close they came, how dangerous the darkness is.

Other times, it's like Sam knows more than he should, like Sam was in that crypt to listen to Garrett tell his plan and unearth John's deepest fears and weaknesses.

So John fights harder and louder, anything to keep Sam in check. Not because it's right. Because that's how it has to be.

And it works. Most of the time.

But John knows sometimes that he's lying to them and that he's lying to himself. He remembers it all, every second of it like it's yesterday. He was helpless and incapable and it's been nothing but a mere man who had nearly taken his children away from him.

John still doesn't know how Sam even survived, but sometimes he's grateful to hear his son yell just to know he still has breath in his body.

Other times, though, when John is not so sure and not so strong, it's like they're both still underground, dying slowly while their father rages against the dying of the light, both waiting for grace, for freedom, for life. He's kept them there for 16 years, telling them just one hunt more, one more kill, just one more day, and they're holding their breath.

But he's digging. He's always been digging. Sometimes he doesn't know which ways up or down, sometimes it seems like whenever he unburies one boy, he's just throwing the dirt onto the other. Sometimes, often he feels like he'll never get there, that he'll never really set them free, but he'll keep trying the only way he knows how.

-o-

John was pretty sure that the night he dug his sons up out of the ground was the worst night of his life. He still feels the terror, the numbness, the encompassing sense of failure of that night. It still haunts his dreams, his darkest thoughts, lingering with him, never to be forgotten.

But tonight he knows he was wrong.

He's tried everything to protect them, everything to make them understand. It's worked with Dean, but he's always losing ground with Sam. Part of him has always believed, though, that his son would understand, that when push came to shove, Sam would get it and stay with his family.

But push has come to shove, and Sam let himself be shoved right out that door.

John's tried punishment, John's tried threats, John's tried everything. He's yelled, he's guilted, he's tried everything short of laying a hand on the boy. And tonight he tries an ultimatum, his last huge gamble, and Sam calls his bluff.

Sam's gone, and so are his meager belongings, and Dean's looking at him with that look of fear and trust, like he expects John to make it right. But John can't do anything, can't make Sam come back, can't make this all right.

The world is vast and the world is dangerous and he's trained his sons, he's trained them well, but now Sam's alone. Alone and vulnerable, and John's line still stands in the sand and he can't cross it now.

That night, John dreams of the cold night, of the shovel in his hands, of finding Dean. And in his dream, Dean asks, "Why didn't you save Sam?"

John doesn't have an answer. He never has, and he just stands there, his mouth open and wonder where it went wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Darkness Shall Follow

Rating: PG-13 for creepiness and violence, gen

Characters: John, Dean, Sam

A/N: Okay. So this is it. The last chapter. I hope this ties up the loose ends in a way that makes people feel satisfied. There's nothing worse than a fic that doesn't end right. Thanks again to Brenna and sendintheclowns, and especially to Gem, who makes all things better merely by her presence.

Summary: It doesn't matter who it is. It just matters that it's not both of them. That he's going to save one and probably condemn the other. This destroys him either way.

* * *

Epilogue

-o-

It's a year after Sam leaves when John picks up a trail of disappearances in a cemetery. Jackets and shoes found in a cemetery crypt in central Oregon. And he knows the date, he knows the date too well, and three people have disappeared there and the fourth will be gone soon if someone doesn't stop it.

This time, John knows. He knows it isn't a spirit. He knows exactly what to expect.

He's more careful than usual and his stealth is animalistic. He waits and plans and comes to the graveyard when all is dark and the houses are sleeping. He carries his pistol and his knife and nothing else.

There's a teenage boy, unconscious in the grass. His skin is white with the cold, and he's not wearing a jacket or shoes. He doesn't know the boy, but he recognizes him, recognizes his own sons in him, the other victims in him.

And the man is digging. He's so intent on his project that he doesn't even hear John sneak up. He doesn't even see him as John stands there, staring in a mixture of disbelief and anger. He doesn't even hear him take out his gun and aim it. He doesn't acknowledge John at all until John releases the safety with a telltale click.

The man freezes and John already recognizes the nondescript figure. He is panting a little, shovel still in his hands, and he is remarkably clean despite his activities.

Slowly, his movements cautious and simple, the man turns and looks up at him.

Their eyes meet and it's like it's three years ago and they're both inside the crypt in Duluth, Minnesota, just the two of them and all their secrets and lies.

"John Winchester," he says and it's like he's greeting an old friend. "I didn't expect to see you here."

It's John who smiles now, grimly and decidedly. "I didn't think you'd be so stupid," he said. "Did you think I wouldn't pick up your pattern again?"

Garrett shrugs noncommittally. "I thought maybe you'd learned your lesson," he said. "That maybe you'd taken those two boys of yours and settled down, given them a real life. I heard they both survived, by the way."

John snapped, "They're both fine and safe." He's had enough of this, enough of the cockiness, enough of his words, enough of _him_.

Garrett laughs, nodding cordially. "For now anyway."

"I did learn my lesson," John said, straightening his aim. "And they're better than they were before. If we stick together, if we train hard enough, nothing will get us."

"You actually believe that," Garrett says, surprised. "You think if you and those two boys of yours rage against the dying of the light long enough, that you can stop it? That's what most people think. That victory is in the fight." He sighs a little. "Sometimes victory is in the letting go."

John's trembling now, shaking with barely controlled emotion. The words are hard and true and wrong and he wants to spit on them, spit on this man, beat him till he's bloody.

Garrett waits for a second, still and watching. Then he purses his lips and his eyes narrow. "What are you going to do, John? How will you protect them? If it's not me--"

That's all the incentive John needs to pull the trigger.

Garrett falls without a sound, without even twitching, and the sound of the gunshot dissipated into silence in the cold night.

He let his aim fall, peering over the edge of the hole.

The man is sprawled, the shovel just beyond his hand. A dark stain spreadsacross his chest, from a bullet to the heart.

He feels like there should be more. There should be relief, satisfaction, something, but instead he just feels cold. The night has seeped into his bones and suddenly he just wants to get out.

But he can't. Not yet. There are still too many loose ends.

He turns and looks back at the boy on the grass. Looking closer, he can see the boy is probably 15 or 16. He has dark hair that needs to be trimmed and for a moment, it reminds him a little too much of Sam. But his face is rounder, a bit more full, and his features are soft and gentle. John rolls him gently on his back and feels for a pulse. The skin is cold--a little too cold--but he's alive. He ghosts his hands over the kid's body and finds a lump on the back of his head, so he's pretty sure how the kid ended up here.

The boy should be shivering more than he is, so John takes off his jacket and drapes it over the teen. He could just call 911 and give them a tip, but that won't do. He needs to dispose of the body and he doesn't want the kid to have to wait because it seems like he's probably waited more than he has to in a lifetime.

So he scoops up the boy into his arms, careful with his head, and takes him back to the truck. He lays the kid in the passenger's seat, tucking his own coat securely around him.

He drives fast and careful, periodically placing a hand on the boy to make sure he's okay. It seems like just a knock to the head, but the kid is still out cold, and that worries John more than he thinks it should.

Because it can't get personal. He's never let himself get involved with a victim.

But this isn't a regular case. And he doesn't know this boy's name, but he knows something about the pain he's gone through, the pain he almost went through, and John feels like he knows him well enough.

When he gets to the hospital, he hands the kid over and feeds them a sob story about being in the right place at the right time. He stays until the parents arrive, a nice looking couple with two other kids in tow. They're both crying and when they hear about John they want to glom all over him, hugs and thanks and tears.

John just smiles and nods and leaves them when they see their son.

As he leaves, he takes one look through the swinging doors to see the boy sitting and awake, smiling and letting his mother hug him. His younger sister is tugging at his arm and his older brother ruffles his hair.

John walks out and doesn't look back again.

-o-

He stops in the graveyard and salts and burns Garrett. He doesn't want to have to come back here. It's the freshest body he's ever burned, but he doesn't feel an ounce of regret as the stench fills his nostrils.

While the embers are still burning, he reburies the hole that Garrett made for the boy and he takes a certain pleasure as the ashes disappear beneath the dirt.

He's supposed to meet Dean in Colorado so the fastest route would be due east, but he convinces himself that he needs a few days off and takes a detour through California. He stops in Palo Alto, but never gets out of his truck, just lingers long enough to catch a glimpse of his son carrying his backpack and nursing a cup of coffee, talking to a friend and smiling.

And it's just good to know Sam's alive, that Sam's okay, that even if they're not together, maybe there's still something good in this mess that is their lives.

-o-

He's two days late when he gets to Colorado and Dean is anxious, but trying not to show it.

John smiles and claps his son on his shoulder.

Dean just looks at him, a little confused by the affection. "You okay, Dad? Was there a problem on the hunt?"

And John almost says yes, almost explains everything, but he can't find the words. He just stands there and looks at his son. He pats Dean's shoulder again, empathically this time. "No," he says. "No problems at all."

_end_


End file.
